Drabble Dabbles : Ice and Fire
by MiHnn
Summary: An ongoing collection of un-related drabbles based on the characters and situations of 'A Song of Ice and Fire' and 'Game of Thrones'. NEW - Theon Greyjoy and Jeyne Poole.
1. Jon Snow : A Change of Rules

**Placed second place in a drabble competition on Throneland. **

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**Title: **A Change of Rules

**Prompt: **(See quote)

**Character: **Jon Snow

**Rating: **G

**Warnings: **None

**Spoiler: **Book 1 - A Game of Thrones.

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_Now this is the Law of the Jungle - as old and as true as the sky;_

_And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die._

_As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back -_

_For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack._

- Rudyard Kipling, **The Jungle Book**

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_I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post._

Those were the words that he had spoken while kneeling before the old gods and those were the vows he was breaking as he rode long and hard with Ghost by his side. He was not as strong as Aemon or Mormont, nor did he have a sense of duty like Sam. He was a bastard born Northman and he would never amount to anything more. It was more than a thousand leagues between him and his brother and Jon knew he would think of nothing else.

His loyalty was to his family; to Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon and Sansa. His loyalty was to Ice which he would gladly use to slit the throat of the boy king who had taken the life of his father.

The grip he had on the reigns tightened as he kicked his mount to move faster, the memory of warning words burrowing deep in his mind.

"_It is a treacherous thing, to play the game of thrones_," Aemon had said amidst the furs that surrounded him, his fingers shaking despite the fire that roared beside him. "_The rules are many. One could easily lose his soul and honour. Your father is an honourable man, is he not, Jon Snow? My father used to believe that honourable men had no place on the Iron Throne. The rules are many_," he repeated, a cough escaping him before he continued. "_And those who do not follow the rules hardly ever live to tell the tale_."

Had that happened to his father? Was it his honour that killed him? Was he unable to follow the rules and play the game the way it was meant to be played? No, he decided. If his father did not choose to play the game then the rules of the game were wrong.

Jon continued to quicken his movements, intent on leaving behind Castle Black and his sworn brothers, but the sound behind him gave him pause. Had he not turned his mount around and moved swiftly towards the brothers that had followed him to convince them to let him be, he would not have heard the words, the reminder of the promise he had made tightening his chest.

"I am the watcher on the walls," they said together. "I pledge my life and honour to the Night's Watch, for this night and all nights to come."

He was no Stark. As much as he wanted to ride to meet Robb and protect his brother from harm, he couldn't. _You are stronger together_, his father had always said. _Stronger with the blood of the Starks and the gods of old._

Could Robb survive the game of thrones without his brothers and sisters? Without his family around him?

Robb would have to forgive him for the choice he had made. He had forsaken their pack to join another. Jon could only pray that his brother was strong enough alone; that he was strong enough to _win._

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	2. Viserys Targaryen : The Chosen Path

**Written for a comment ficathon. **

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**Title: **The Chosen Path

**Prompt:** Viserys successfully steals the eggs from his sister. - AU

**Character: **Viserys Targaryen

**Rating: **PG13

**Warnings: **As if this world is without any violence and death.

**Spoiler: **Book 1 - A Game of Thrones.

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It had taken days of riding on horseback for Viserys to reach the closest rodent invest colony. It was a filthy, vile town with questionably moral characters, but considering the fact that the true Prince of the Seven Kingdoms was riding a filthier, viler animal that never did what was instructed, he found the place he had stumbled upon lesser of the two evils. The moment he dismounted, he sold the wretched thing he rode for one silver and six copper pieces. Having no coin to his name was excessively wearisome and Viserys knew in his heart of hearts that he would be successful in his endeavour; to finally be able to wash the Dothraki off his skin was something he could not contain his excitement for.

After a hot meal where he consumed a disgusting broth and a quick wash in a poor excuse of a bath, it took handing one copper piece slyly to the stinking inn keeper for Viserys to be shown the directions to the one man closest who might know a slave owner. Viserys took with him the chest with his precious cargo , not trusting the inn keeper not to rifle through his belongs once he had stepped away to follow in his search.

Bo Krum was a hefty man with a heftier chin. His gait was large while his humour and sense of decency was obviously lacking. This was something Viserys noted the moment the oaf failed to offer him a seat in welcome. Once he takes his rightful place on the Iron Throne, he promised himself that he would return in all his glory to punish the fat one's insolence. But for now, as distasteful as it was, Viserys needed him.

"I need an army."

Bo Krum glanced at him disdainfully before picking up a plum with two plump fingers and tearing into it with yellow teeth. He swallowed noisily then sucked on his fingers one by one. "I am able to get you slaves, but not an army."

Tongue in cheek, Viserys tried not to begin an argument with the only man who could give him what he needed. "Once you armour them, they will _be_ an army."

Bo Krum licked his lips. "But I have nothing to arm them with."

Teeth gritted in anger, Viserys hissed, "Then get some weapons and hand them to the slaves."

The larger man laughed, his big belly shaking uncontrollably with every loud chuckle. "We cannot provide slaves with weapons. They would kill us all."

Sighing, Viserys leaned back while adopting a deadly tone of voice. "How much would it cost me to buy slaves and armour them?"

Bo Krum took this opportunity to take another plum, seemingly unconcerned with the conversation that was occurring. "More than a beggar Prince could afford."

Viserys bristled. It did not surprise him that such a filthy peasant knew who he was. Very few traders, even those beyond the Narrow Sea, did not know a member of dragon's blood once their eyes had fallen on pale blonde hair. But he was surprised that the peasant would insult him so brazenly. "I'll have you know that I am no longer a beggar."

Bo Krum took a large bite of the plum and swallowed.

The peasant's lack of interest angered Viserys further. "I have, in my possession, three Dragon's eggs which will gladly fetch me an army, a boat and so much more; so I would suggest that you watch that tongue of yours before I see it fit to confiscate it."

At the mention of the Dragon's eggs, Bo Krum's eyes widened and he stopped mid-chew. "Dragon's eggs?" he questioned reverently. Immediately his eyes fell on the chest Viserys had brought with him and for the first time, his eyes brightened with recognition.

Satisfied that he had finally gotten the attention of the disgusting merchant, Viserys smirked. "Yes, Dragon's eggs. Very rare and very valuable."

Placing down his half eaten plum, Bo Krum frowned thoughtfully. "You shall have your army…for two Dragon's eggs."

Viserys glared. The art of bargaining; how very droll. "_One_ Dragon egg and no more. And you find the weapons and armour."

The trader sneered, his eyes still on the chest while he looked upon it with utmost want. "You drive a hard bargain, My Prince."

Viserys smiled at the title he was addressed at. It was surely past time when the peasant was meant to show some sort of respect towards his birth right.

"I shall get them ready in a fortnight."

The smile that played on Viserys' lips dropped. "A week," he insisted. That was one thing he had learned from his father before he was brutally murdered: never give away the position of power. His tone seemed appropriate when Bo Krum's internal battle ended with Viserys' victory.

"Yes, My Prince. You shall have your army in a week."

Viserys grinned. "There now, that wasn't too hard, was it?"

The trader didn't say a word, a deep frown marring his features.

Satisfied with his first successful bargaining agreement, Viserys stood up swiftly. "Until next week!" Excited with the prospect of finally getting what he had always wanted, he turned on his heel to leave, taking his precious eggs with him.

Now that he had been successful in acquiring an army, a boat would be the next item to purchase. Once he had both elements, he would finally be able to return home as the conquering hero and take his rightful place on the Iron Throne. His father would have been proud of his many achievem-

Viserys did not feel the cold steel move across his neck, from ear to ear, until it was too late. He chocked as he felt the warmth of his blood spurt through his parted lips. He dropped to his knees in surprise, the thought that he was about to leave this life hardly passing through his mind.

That scoundrel! That peasant! He betrayed him. How dare he? How dare _he_!

The last thought that sifted through his mind, just before he drew his last breath, was that he would ensure that the cowards who did this to him would feel the way he currently felt.

He would make them suffer. He would make them _all_ suffer.

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	3. Myrcella Baratheon : Her Lord Father

**Prompted by lainemontgomery and written for an ASOIAF Meme.  
**

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**Title: **Her Lord Father

**Prompt: **Sometimes, when he's in a good mood, Myrcella's papa will pull her up onto his lap and tell her stories about a beautiful grey-eyed princess in a frozen kingdom, with a crown of blue flowers in her hair.

**Character: **Myrcella Baratheon

**Rating: **G

**Warnings: **None

**Spoiler: **Book 3 - A Storm of Swords.

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She was the princess with golden hair; a beauty like her mother and comely like her father. When she entered rooms, a hush would always follow, words suspended as if they were admiring her, but Myrcella knew, she _knew_, what the silence truly meant.

They thought she didn't know the whispers of the Red Keep. She knew about the whores that frequented her father's bed and she noticed the secret looks her mother and Uncle Jaime were known to share. She knew that they called her father the Usurper and thought Lannisters were as unforgiving as they were rich.

She didn't take mind of it all. Those who didn't understand or truly know their lives would whisper. They didn't know that every night her mother would brush her hair, that her Uncle Jaime would bring her pretty flowers and Uncle Tyrion would kiss her on her forehead with a witty quip to make her laugh. She loved them all dearly, but it was her father's visits she looked forward to the most.

She waited for when he wasn't buried in his cups. For when he was sober, her father would pull her onto his knee and tell her stories of old. He spoke of battles and glory, of men and honour. He told her never to trust a man, and to trust a woman even less. He would brush golden locks away from her face, beam widely and call her his little princess. He would marvel at her heart and ask after her lessons. And when she was good, he would talk about a beautiful princess from a frozen kingdom with blue flowers in her hair and fiery grey eyes.

Myrcella knew her father was not a happy man. His laughter was loud and raucous but his eyes held sadness in their depths. But, when he spoke of her, the woman from his tales, he was truly happy then. And Myrcella was happiest when her father was his happiest.

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	4. Sandor Clegane : His Little Bird

**Written for the asoiaf_exchange 2012**

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**Title: **His Little Bird

**Character: **Sandor Clegane

**Rating: **T

**Warnings: **Violence

**Spoiler: **Book 2 - A Clash of Kings.

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The first time he screamed – truly screamed – he was a mere boy. The flames licked his skin, the fire hugging his face like a woman's teats would hug her babes while the pain seared through him. He felt the struggle leave his body, his fingers curling into the arms of his brother as he screamed. It was fire and flame, all but burning pain. He could hear the crackle of his skin and smell the burning char of his face. Voice rough, breath horse, he screamed. He screamed loudly for help, for safety and hope. He then screamed for death, to end his suffering so that the pain would stop. All he wanted was the pain to stop. It was only the mercy of his brother, or his indifference, that saved him. He was chucked far from the fire, his body covered in soot and his eye closed as he whimpered and curled into himself.

It was only when his brother kicked his legs did he open his one good eye and saw the twisted features of the boy he had looked to for everything. _Don't touch my things_, he said. _Never touch my things_.

Sandor had nodded, closed his eyes and cried. His brother left him on the floor to wallow in his misery and it wasn't for a while that his mother found him with half his face gone.

Sandor knew then that screaming would serve no purpose. What he needed was a sword, steel so sharp that if his brother ever tried to burn him once again, he would run it through his kin's heart and twist it until the bigger boy screamed.

No one would hurt him again, he promised himself. And no one would make him scream.

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He watched every blow being struck and watched as she didn't scream. A whimper would pass her lips, a whine when the beating became too much, but she never screamed. He watched her skin become bruised, broken and torn. He watched her hair being pulled, the cut on her lip grow and her gown being ripped to show her white skin and the pain she suffered underneath. Any other woman would have cried and yelled, begging for mercy until their last breaths. But, she never said a word as to what she suffered, she simply smiled and said the dutiful words expected of her, just like a little bird in her cage.

Unlike all others, the little bird wouldn't shy away from him. Women hid from him, men mocked him, boys treaded carefully with a stick around him, but this little girl thanked him like a pretty little maid too proper for pain. She was dutiful and polite, calling him a knight that he always knew he never was. Before long, he started to believe it, the stupid bastard he was.

While others saw beauty and reverence, Sandor saw strength in a mere girl.

She never screamed. He had to remember that. She never screamed.

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There was fire, so much fire, and it was all around him. He stumbled, fell, his armour heavier than what it had ever been, his skin burning from the heat of the flames. It was as if each drop of sweat was burning him from within, each one licking its way down a flaming trail over the rough skin of his face and hands. He had to leave; he knew he had to leave.

He got off his knees, stumbled and fell, then tried again. He had to leave. He knew he had to leave. He avoided the flames; moved right when the flames were left, moved back when the flames came towards him. There were no men, he couldn't see any. All he saw was dancing fire of yellow and red, a reminder of blinding pain and agonising hatred…and something else; something pretty and trapped with red crowning blue.

His movements were a haze but he made it to where he had wanted to be. He couldn't save the bloody town, he couldn't even save the bloody people even if he wanted to, but he could save himself. And he could save the trapped bird locked in a cage before the walls of the castle crumbled and the enemy took everything. They would steal, rape and kill and Sandor knew that the little bird would not survive, not without him.

She was afraid of him, he could see it; big blue eyes that could never lie. He didn't think she would come with him so he asked her to sing him a song. Maybe he would die that night, maybe she would if she didn't ask him to protect her, but he had heard her sing and wanted nothing more than to hear her voice lilt once more. Her voice was sweet, sweeter than wine and he closed his eyes and thought to what other men might give her, other men with a whole face and no blood on their hands. His hands were stained with red as deep as her hair and all he could think of was to touch it, touch her and see if she would run away from him.

When he kissed her, his lips were rough, unforgiving, and he knew that she wouldn't come with him. He wasn't going to beg. He didn't need her, or want her, he told himself. She was only a means to an end and nothing more. So he tells her that he would take her away, protect her and provide for her. Had he been a better man, a knight sung in songs he would have worn gleaming armour and promised her love. He would have kissed her palm and given her flowers, words flowing prettily for a pretty maiden and she would have smiled and said, "My knight."

But, he was an imperfect man with an imperfect face able to give her only an imperfect life.

She was shaking when he asked her, her fingers holding tightly to her gown. "I will go with you," she said.

And even though his heart sored and his chest felt lighter, he told her curtly, "Come on, then."

She was a child, he reminded himself. But, one day she will be older, and maybe, she will see him differently by then.

Her brother's favour would be what he had to strive for.


	5. Theon & Jeyne : They Wouldn't Remember

**Title: **They Wouldn't Remember Their Names

**Prompt: **Picture of a dig-site with two human skeletons entwined like they're holding each other.

**Characters: **Theon Greyjoy, Jeyne Poole

**Rating: **G

**Warnings: **Implied character death.

**Spoiler: **Book 5 - A Dance With Dragons.

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His body was numb as he trudged through the snow, each move slower, each step harder than the last. He could feel the shiver of his lower lip and the pain in his leg that seeped past the numbness as he kept moving. He might not have known what was before him but he did know what was after him. That thought made him take each agonising step forward. He couldn't go back; not now, not ever. With each step he thought of the life he had led before Winterfell: the shouts of men, the sound of the sea and the smell of salt. He was an iron islander who was meant for rocks and water, not a Stark whose home was the snow. As light as it was, it was his enemy, as pretty as it was, it could only bring him death.

With far less hope in his chest, he trudged through the heavy snow as he tightened his grip on the hand he held. He only stopped when he felt his load lighten. He turned to see her on her knees, arms surrounding herself as she shivered tears into the white snow.

"I can't…" she whispered as her head shook and her grip tightened on her arms. "I can't go on."

He bent down towards her, his own hands—broken, bruised, torn and covered with gloves that burned—clutching her shoulders tightly. "You can." He shook her. "You must."

"I _can't_." She sobbed louder, the tears freezing on her cheeks. "I'm tired."

"We must go on. They're close. I know it." He tried to lift her, but couldn't. The cold had made him weaker than what he was, close to what strength he once had as Reek. "Please. We must go." He would not have begged once. He would have demanded. But now he held her and begged only to feel her collapse further into the snow.

"I'm tired," she whispered. "Please. Let me rest. I'm so very tired." Brown eyes—not Stark grey—looked up at him. "Aren't you?"

He was. He was just as tired. But rest in the snow meant sleep of a different kind and he wasn't sure if he wanted that. But she wanted that, he could see it in her eyes.

He fell to his knees beside her, a gloved hand gently clutching her face. "We must go. We can't rest."

Her lower lip trembled, fresh tears burning her eyes. "No one would ever want me."

"That's not true."

She shook her head, for she knew he spoke only words. They held no meaning, just like the title he had once given himself.

"You must go," she said through her sobs. "You will move faster without me."

He would have laughed if he could. A cripple move faster than a young girl. Who would even think it? "Come." He took her by the arm and pulled. "We can't stay here. He will find us."

"He won't. Not in this storm." She pulled away from him and sunk lower into the snow. "I want to rest."

After everything he had done for her…

"We are close. I know it," he said meekly.

But she lied down on the snow and curled into a ball. "There's nothing for me." She tightened her arms around herself as she shivered. "There never was," she said sadly.

He thought of the father he once had, the sister who openly despised him and the captor he had once called 'Master'. He thought of the friend he had betrayed and the men he had believed to be his own. He thought of the names he had been called: Hostage, Turncloak, Reek, and Theon, the name only the dead called him. Then he watched the girl who had suffered as he had, sold, bruised, battered, raped, and he found himself unable to see her shiver. He lied down beside her and surrounded her with his arms.

"You're not leaving," she said against him.

"Not yet." He tightened his hold and watched as her eyes closed. She looked peaceful in her slumber, and Theon realised how long he had wanted to feel such peace, even in such cold.

_Her name is Jeyne_, he remembered. _It rhymes with pain, it rhymes with chain, it rhymes with slain. _

He thought of his names; some he would never want to be called again. What would they remember him as, when he was no more? Would he be Turncloak, the Betrayer? Would he be Reek, the Tortured? Or would he be simply Theon, the saviour of the girl named Jeyne? He hoped he would be called Theon, he _wanted_ to be called Theon. And, he wanted her to be called Jeyne.

With that as his last thought, he hugged her tighter, kissed her forehead and waited for peaceful slumber.

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End file.
